Fifty Shades of Scarlet
by FireCube
Summary: What happens when: 1. Hester and Dimmesdale get drunk together? 2. Dimmesdale meets Chillingsworth and things get... interesting?
1. Chapter 1: She Did WHAT? She Did WHO?

A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing. This idea came up rather… randomly… Neither my friends nor I have ever written anything like this… so… this will either be really stupid or entertaining. Or both. Whatever. Anyway… here goes my attempt at… something new. Also, any details from Scarlet Letter that are incorrect are… incorrect. I apologize. I'm not the best with details. Additionally, any anachronisms included are merely for 1. Entertainment and 2. Compensation for my lack of Puritan imagination. Any mistakenly used make-up terms are because I don't understand make-up. It makes about as much sense as rocket science, despite my being female. Also, excuse my terrible metaphors. I try. Anyhow, I don't own a scarlet letter or any other accessory that would designate me as an adulterer. I also don't own Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne or any inflated, obsequious, and loquacious language that such a novel entails.

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" _Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought. Our brightest blazes are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks." –Samuel Johnson_

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A throng of bearded men, in sad-colored garments, and gray, steeple-crowned hats, intermixed with women, some wearing hoods and others bareheaded, was assembled in front of a wooden edifice, the door of which was heavily timbered with oak, and studded with iron spikes. They all stood anxiously, waiting to see the famed Hester Prynne, the so-called master of all sinners. Waiting to see the "naughty baggage". Waiting to see the mysterious woman who had committed the greatest sin in all of Puritan history: having a child by someone who wasn't her husband.

After the crowd held its breath for what seemed like eternity, the doors of the jail were finally flung open from within. Coming into view from behind the grand doors stood a black shadow, emerging into the sunshine. She bore in her arms a child, a baby of some three months old, whom she had named "Pearl", in a completely nonironic way. I mean, it wasn't like the baby was her source of life. Rather, the baby was the source of all her troubles. Despite what some Puritan authors may have claimed, Pearl did not keep Hester in life. Pearl was the root of all of Hester's problems. The scarlet letter splashed across her bosom for all the world to see. The ridicule she faced daily when walking through town. The longing for a man to respect her. The wish to be loved. Regardless, Hester remained between the immense prison doors. Though she stood erect, with her back straight and shoulders back, she still looked like an ant, shadowed by the cosmos of society.

Out in the observing crowd stood two very peculiar men. Both of these men were in one way or another part of Hester's life. Both were oblivious that the other existed.

Atop a platform that overlooked the large and growing crowd stood a man: Reverend Dimmesdale. He was the minister of the town. Ironically, he had sinned in the most un-Puritan way. In a completely accidental encounter with Hester after several rounds of tequila, Dimmesdale ended up sleeping with Hester. Neither remembered what happened on the night of drunkenness, but they could both make an educated guess.

Roughly 9 months ago:

The sun sneaked in through the curtains, leaving a glowing impression upon the two figures in bed. On the left side of the bed lay a young clergyman, who had come from one of the great English universities. His visage was dominated by a white, lofty, and impending brow that rested atop large, brown, melancholy eyes. He was a minister. Now _that_ was ironic.

On the right side of the bed rested a tall young woman, with a figure of perfect elegance on a large scale. She had dark and abundant hair, so glossy that it threw off the sunshine that radiated into the room. Her face, which, besides being beautiful from regularity of feature and richness of complexion, had the impressiveness of belonging to a marked brow and deep black eyes. Her usual lady-like composure was replaced by a being about as composed as a blank sheet of music. Her regularly elegant hair sprawled out behind her a million different directions, her beautiful eyes were marred by smeared mascara, and her lips were sprinkled with an interesting pattern of lipstick that looked like a blind right-handed individual had stabbed her face with lipstick in his left hand.

Hester rolled over with a groan as the thousand pounding drums in her head increased in volume. It was as if a little army was punching the inside of her skull, threatening to crack it. She reached into the cabinet by her bedside and pulled out two tablets of aspirin. Grabbing a glass of water, she downed the two pills in one gulp. As she put the cup back down on the table, she spotted a black robe on the floor. _Odd_. Rubbing her eyes, Hester picked up the robe to inspect it, becoming more puzzled by the moment, until a necklace with a cross fell to the floor. Putting two and two together, she turned around quickly, and gasped when she saw a man on her bed, clothed in nothing but… well… a bed sheet. Such an exclamation roused the man and he immediately put his hands over his ears as the cacophonous drumming began in his skull. Hester handed him some aspirin, which he gratefully accepted. For a minute, they both just looked at each other and the various articles of clothing strewn across the room floor. Awkwardness filled the air and settled around the two beings. After an extremely awkward stare-down, the man, Dimmesdale, cleared his throat and got up. Hester immediately turned around and covered her eyes, wishing not to see the Reverend in his natural glory. Dimmesdale hurriedly ran around the room, gathering his belongings. Quickly thrusting on his boxers and hastily pulling his robe on, he began to walk towards the door. He tried to smooth out the crinkles in the robes with his hands to no avail. Before he could walk out the door, Hester stopped him.  
"Um… I think you forgot something," Hester said in a tiny voice. She held out his necklace that had fallen onto the floor previously.

"Uh… thanks," Dimmesdale replied, with about as much class as a sixth grade boy who had just learned that girls existed. He grabbed the necklace in one graceless swipe and swiftly walked out the door.

In one fell swoop, Hester plopped back on her pillow and stared up at the ceiling fan. The oscillating blades ran in endless circles, just like her mind. What happened last night? Who was that? What am I doing? How stupid could I be? Could I be pregnant? Well, long story short: sex, the minister, I have no clue, very, and yes. Such questions ran through Hester's mind on a loop. However, before long, she succumbed to sleep; tired from… whatever had happened the night prior. One thought remained clear to her in her drunken haze: I JUST SLEPT WITH THE MINISTER. HOLY CRAP. WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

Present Day Prison

As mentioned before, there were two interesting men in the audience. One of these men was Dimmesdale. He was in an… interesting position. He stood above Hester (literally) but was an equal with her, in terms of severity of sins. The other important male stood at the back of the crowd. His tall frame stood out in the crowd, a frame that had survived numerous years and sported a pale, thin, scholar-like visage, with eyes dim and bleared by the lamplight that had served them to pore over many ponderous books. Yet, those same bleared optics had a strange, penetrating power, when it was their owner's purpose to read the human soul. In this case, the human soul was that of Hester Prynne. It should probably be mentioned that this man, who went by the alias "Roger Chillingworth", was Hester's husband. Naturally, he was not happy that his wife was standing between prison doors, clutching a child whom he knew he did not father. He began pushing his way towards the front of the crowd to find out what the hell was going on. It should also be noted that, as with almost all character names, "Chillingworth" is a _very_ subtle clue to his nature. His heart could have been made of ice for all the world knew. How he had managed to seduce a woman such as Hester is beyond us all. Regardless, his coldness extended to other parts of his character. He liked to be in control. Being in control made him feel powerful, unstoppable, and god-like. The thrill of telling others exactly what to do gave him a rush that could only be rivaled by a few… sensual situations. The fear he saw in others' eyes as he yelled in his stern, unwavering voice only gave him more of a rush. You could say he was a bit… domineering, in every sense of the word.

Upon his platform, Dimmesdale spotted one lone figure moving gracefully through the crowd. Dimmesdale began descending the stairs to the ground to intercept this man.

"Hello good sir, may I help you?" Dimmesdale greeted.

"Yes. May you be so kind as to tell me what the _hell_ my _wife_ is doing over there with a _baby_ in her arms?" Chillingworth demanded in a husky voice as he thrust his finger in the direction of Hester. Dimmesdale' mouth would have fallen to the ground had it not been secured to his head by his jaw. He blinked rapidly a few times before asking, or rather, shouting:  
"Um… what? Sorry I couldn't hear you over the roar of this obnoxious crowd."

Chillingworth leaned closer to Dimmesdale's ear as he repeated his question in an equally deep and raspy voice:  
"I asked: what is my wife doing over there?" Chillingworth repeated himself. It should be noted that as Chillingworth uttered the word "wife", a man bumped into him slightly from behind. This caused Chillingworth to pitch forward, closer to Dimmesdale's listening ear. His lips lightly grazed the tip of Dimmesdale's ear as he finished asking his question. He quickly pulled away after realizing what had happened. Dimmesdale just stared. _Should I tell him I slept with his wife and impregnated her? Should I say something? What should I say? Why are his eyes so deep? I feel like I could stare into his eyes for hours. Wait. What?_ He shook his head vigorously as he tried to shake out any weird thoughts he had. He was about to open his mouth and spew nonsense when his legs disagreed with him. He let out a simple "sorry" before he turned on his heel and fled through the crowd. Chillingworth, taken aback by such a response, began to run after the minister as quickly as he could. However, the thickness and density of the crowd restricted his movement and adequately shielded the minister from view. The oddness of the whole situation had not gone unnoticed by him. Questions ran through his mind as quickly as his feet pattered on the ground. _What the hell is going on? Who was that? Why did he act so weird? What is even happening? I am utterly confused_.

As he continued to push through the unrelenting crowd, he uttered a line to himself:

"I will find that man and get to the bottom of this, whatever this is, if it's the last thing do!"

XXX Fin de Chapitre 1 XXX

A/N: Well that was fun! I might actually have enough motivation to write more of this! Basically, this is my attempt at light smut. Obviously, such an idea came up in a conversation between friends. This was quite enjoyable to write and hopefully I'll have more chapters up later. Please review and tell me what I'm doing wrong/right! Props to you-know-who-you-are for the title idea!


	2. Chapter 2: Welcome to Heaven

" _ **I don't know the question, but sex is definitely the answer." – Woody Allen**_

Chillingworth roughly pushed open his door, grunting slightly as the doorknob smashed into the wall behind it. Reaching his desk in a mere five strides, he began shuffling around his desk. Pushing aside various papers, pens and varying lengths of rope, Chillingworth laid his eyes upon a single newspaper. The red letters that read "The Puritan Daily" shone brightly, as if taunting him, catching the attention of his searching eyes. Flipping through the pages, he came across some rather bizarre article headings: "Group of Young Girls Caught Streaking through the Woods", "Anonymous Lady Steals 100 Pounds of Potatoes to Make 200 Kinds of Potato Chips", "Young Girl Discovers Dinosaur She Calls 'Big-Nose-Horn-Face'", "Kid Spends $45 on Cookies and Water: Economic Inflation?", and "Breaking News: Angry Priest Makes Speech on 4th of July". Chillingworth sighed. This was pointless. All these stupid articles sounded like something the government would deem "seditious" and outrageous. He closed the newspaper and threw it on his desk, knocking aside several paper clips and pencils in the process. As the newspaper landed on his desk, a single page fluttered to the ground, unnoticed by Chillingworth.

If only such a movement had caught his attention! He would have seen the article titled "Hester Prynne Punished For Adultery By Being Forced To Wear A Scarlet Letter! (Turn to page 21 for more details and page 25 for more pictures)". If only Chillingworth had noticed such a page, he would have found what he was looking for. But alas, ignorance is bliss and a great way to frustrate people.

"Cookies and water bottles!" Chillingworth cursed, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. The paper clips and pencils sprawled out on the ground merely annoyed Chillingworth as he paced around the room.

Clasping his hands together in a grip that could crush metal, Chillingworth walked as his mind ran. _What the hell is going on? I mean, I guess I can assume that my wife cheated and slept with another man, but I must get to the bottom of this. Who did she sleep with? Perhaps I can sympathize with him. She has wronged us both. Perhaps the saying "the enemy of my enemy is my friend" holds more truth than meets the eye_.

With a newfound bounce in his step, Chillingworth strutted out the door, in search of answers.

"Excuse me young girl," Chillingworth began, to a stranger, "where might I find the minister's place of residence? I am terribly lost and need some spiritual guidance," he finished with an outward air of courtesy.

The stranger looked up at him with curiosity and disdain plainly splashed across her face. She stood at a mere five-feet, a good foot shorter than Chillingworth. "And who might _you_ be? A creepy man dressed in black lurking around our society. How do I know you're not out to get me? Why should I help you? Are you here to kill the ministers?"

"What?! No-"

"He's the third house on the next left, on Tilapia Street," the young girl interjected, contorting her face into a sly smile. She eyed him curiously, analyzing his response the way a detective would his suspect. Chillingworth merely arched his left eyebrow into the shape of a concave down quadratic function to indicate surprise while simultaneously at the same time rubbing his hands together, the same way a cliché evil villain might before revealing his evil plan to the protagonist, who would be able to thwart him. This beneficial information was beneficial, to say the least.

The young girl, apparently satisfied, began walking away, humming lightly to herself. In one swift motion, Chillingworth grabbed her tightly by the wrist and spun her around. "What is your name? I would like to properly thank you for that valuable intel."

"Why- my name is Abigail," she responded, surprised that the tall man had such a strong grip of her petit wrist.

"Well Abigail, thank you very much for your help, and I wish you well in your endeavors doing… well… whatever you're going to do," Chillingworth finished somewhat awkwardly.

"Um… I mean I'm totally not going to the forest to conjure up the spirits of seven dead babies with a bunch of other girls, I'm just – casually taking a stroll in the woods," Abigail responded weakly, eyeing her boots very intensely as to avoid the stern stare of Chillingworth.

"Well, I guess you'll be on your way then," Chillingworth added, with a nervous laugh. Gosh this girl seemed crazy. Short, sarcastic (or at least he hoped she was being sarcastic) and quirky. Chillingworth merely laughed to himself as he and Abigail continued in opposite directions. Man, this town was crazy. Who knew what else it could hide? Chillingworth was about to find out.

As Chillingworth continued on his way to that mysterious house on Tilapia Street, as he had found out from Abigail, he couldn't help but feel a little bit out of place. The small town was populated by a large number of impoverished denizens while a few well-to-do individuals ran the place. Chillingworth, who had inherited a sizeable fortune from his uncle, was lucky enough to be in the latter. However, in a society dominated by less fortunate people, the wealthy were scorned, sometimes even threatened. The peasants demanded equal pay, better working hours, and more equal distribution of money between the upper and lower class. In a few hundred years, some governments would even call this signs of a society overtaken by Communism. If only. That would be dramatic. But the society was structured like any other: the upper class comprising a mere one percent of the population while the lower class scrambled to make ends meet. The classic hierarchy that has existed for ages. Chillingworth would not help contemplating this caste system as he continued his journey to the minister's house. He could feel the burn of dozens of pairs of eyes watching him from behind cracked windows and broken doors. Instead of blushing or feeling embarrassed like a normal man might, Chillingworth merely stood up taller, reaching approximately six and a half feet, jutted his chin out and kept up a brisk pace.

You see, Chillingworth was not your typical man in any sense. He drew up a figure of over six-feet, a good three-quarters of a foot taller than the average man. As mentioned before, he liked to be in control, thus he liked to feel powerful. Under the gaze of many, Chillingworth felt like he was the center of attention, of which he was. But to him, he was under the mere gaze of _peasants_. He was above these people, literally and figuratively. Perhaps he sympathized with them sometimes to gain their trust and affection, but Chillingworth loathed poor people.

"Peasants," Chillingworth spat under his breath as he rounded a corner onto Tilapia Street. Every once in a while, he would find a small child watching him, and just stare at him or her. His cold eyes bore into his or her soul, causing fright and fear that no child should ever have to feel. If Chillingworth were the star of a show where characters had mystic powers, Chillingworth's power would have been ice. The air around him would be tinted blue as he absorbed the heat around him, the same way an endothermic reaction would cause condensation to form on the side of a beaker. Regardless of any scientific explanations for this phenomenon in a non-existent show, the grass around him would die the second he stepped on it. He would be something of an Ice King, with a gaze so cold it could rival the powers of Jack Frost and Elsa combined. As expected, Chillingworth found pleasure in very few things. As mentioned before, one of these things was being in control. The rush he felt when someone heeded his every command would cause endorphins to flow through his veins was analogous to the response a normal person might have to riding a roller coaster.

It had been a while since Chillingworth had felt such a rush. Surprisingly (to Chillingworth), very few people were submissive enough to allow him that sort of command and power. In any sense, Chillingworth hoped to find some answers from the minister. Maybe he would tell Chillingworth what the heck was actually going on. Maybe Chillingworth would find out whom Hester had cheated on him with. As he continued walking, Chillingworth's mind wandering to a darker place. Maybe he could take control of this mysterious sinner. Oh, how he longed to feel coarse rope run under his fingers, the rough handle of a whip, the texture of heated smooth skin. As his mind ran rampant, his lips gradually curved upward into a sinister smile. The darkness of his thoughts could have blotted out the sun on a bright summer day.

After his head ran a track that could earn him a ticket straight to Hell, Chillingworth finally reached the minister's house. Just as Abigail had said, it was the third house on the left of Tilapia Street. It was easy to spot, it stood out like a blue sore thumb. It was painted a baby blue while the other houses on the street resembled something of freshman year architecture projects that had gotten scrapped. They seemed to be painted red, but no one could really tell with the chipped paint and excessive mold climbing up the sides of the houses. The gutters had all half-fallen off, held on by a few rusty nuts and bolts. The ceilings, if existent at all, had missing tiles and were riddled with holes. Chillingworth continued to scan the other houses as he raised his fist and knocked three times on the heavy oak door that stood in front of him. The generally dilapidated states of the other houses only made the minister's house stand out more.

After a good two minutes with no response, Chillingworth knocked on the door again, more heavily this time. After another five minutes, Chillingworth gave up. However, instead of walking away, he took a few steps back, and rammed his shoulder into the door. Nothing

A sharp pain shot up his arm and caused Chillingworth to curse in pain.

"Holy mother of onions!" Chillingworth cursed as he grimaced in pain. He grunted several times and shook his shoulder in an unsuccessful attempt to shake off the pain. That wasn't supposed to happen! In the movies, the door opened with one shoulder-ram. Chillingworth sighed. Well, this didn't seem to be one of those movies. In any case, Chillingworth tried to come up with a feasible way to get into the house. He needed to speak to the minister, no matter how much his shoulder felt like Satan himself had held a flamethrower to it. In a flurry of movement, Chillingworth thrust his foot forward with a loud exhale.

"ARGH," Chillingworth scream indignantly. Surprisingly, the door gave way. Chillingworth smiled once more, surprised that his bout of anger had actually managed to open a door. Once he took in his surroundings, his face took on a more serious air. There were no lights anywhere, except the few rays that made it through the deep purple curtains. An eerie glow blanketed the entire house and made it difficult to see. In the darkness, Chillingworth could make out a staircase. Using his left hand to lead him, he felt along the wall until he reached the staircase, walking slowly to ensure that he wouldn't damage any other body parts. His footsteps resounded throughout the seemingly empty house, only adding to the ghostly air in the house. As he reached the top of the staircase, he heard a muffled cry.

Choosing to stay silent, Chillingworth continued to feel his way around, trying to find a light switch. After a few more steps, he tripped over something, despite his attempts to not harm himself further.

As a renewed heat shot up his arm, the same muffled voice cried out again, only much closer. As Chillingworth put two and two together, he straightened himself quickly. He had tripped over _someone_. To make matters worse, that someone didn't seem to be wearing clothes from the waist down! Chillingworth only managed to deduce this because he had fallen _on_ said man. Despite the awkwardness of the situation that had just occurred, Chillingworth could not help but feel a little heat, this time not from his arm, but from deep in his stomach.

After several minutes of intense wall-groping, Chillingworth finally managed to find a light switch. After he flipped the switch, the lights in the room slowly flickered to life, one at a time.

Chillingworth settled his gaze on the figure backed against the wall in a chair. Indeed, the man was practically naked. With nothing but a sock to cover whatever dignity he had left, the man squirmed in his seat. After several seconds of deep thinking, Chillingworth realized that this was the minister! Following this minor epiphany, he had two questions: how the hell did the minister get into such a compromising position? And how could he get someone else into a similar position? The minister was bound to the chair with thick, coarse rope that was sure to leave burn marks. His legs were secured tightly to the two front legs of the chair with the same rope, while his hands were tied behind him in something that reminded Chillingworth of a Gordian knot. The white sock that covered practically nothing stood out against the minister's sweaty skin. Chillingworth could not help but admire the ripple of muscles as he squirmed in his seat, trying to free himself from the position he was in. He also could not help but notice the way his skin seemed to glisten under the flickering lights, courtesy of the layer of sweat it was covered in. If only Chillingworth had a day alone with this man in this exact position. Oh the things he would do. Every deep and dark fantasy he had ever had would be fulfilled the same way a child's dreams would be fulfilled the moment he or she went to Disney land. Because Chillingworth possessed a mind that lived up to the first eight letters of his last name, his mind immediately ran wild, fueled by his ticket-to-Hell worthy thoughts. Getting a man, or woman for that matter, into such a position would probably prove to be nearly impossible, so Chillingworth decided to make the best of the situation he was given. Lucky for him, this situation seemed like a dream come true. Unlucky for the minister, he had no idea what was going on, and what was about to happen.

"He-hello? Who's there?" the minister asked nervously. Because his mouth was stuffed with a who-knows-how-dirty-and-who-knows-where-it-has-been-sock, his two questions came out of more like "ampefrfo? Hose dare?". He could tell that the lights had been turned on, but the black blindfold that rested over his eyes did not allow him to see much else beside a faintish yellow glow. He was scared out of his wits, and he didn't even know what was going to happen over the course of the next however-long-Chillingworth-decided-time-interval.

"It is I. Your deepest dream and your darkest desire. I am your nightmare. Welcome to Heaven."

-Fin de Chapitre Deux-

 **A/N:** *Gestures hand grandly* References! Shameless referencing anything and everything. Props to you if you can find and understand them all! For those unacquainted with me: shameless PSAT 2015 referencing! (Sorry collegeboard, I will not "bring information outside the test".) The Crucible! Blatant teacher references! Rise of the Guardians! Frozen! _That_ book! A certain friend who feels that mass killing would better control the world's population issue! To all those who might realize that not all details may match up to actual stories, I have one thing to say: artistic license! And laziness (well I guess that makes two, I can't even count). Anyway, not much has happened this chapter so far. I guess I'm just kind of putting off the actual confrontation (hehe). Meh. This is also the first story I've ever written a second chapter for. Motivation! (Thank you, you-know-who-you-are). Anyway, next chapter may be actual interactions between important characters and stuff might happen. Who knows? You will if you pray I have enough motivation to write!


	3. Chapter 3: The Sock Says Goodbye

"It is I. Your deepest dream and your darkest desire. I am your nightmare. Welcome to Heaven," Chillingworth responded, his voice deeper than usual, sending an echo around the bare walls. His tone resembled that of a hero telling a city that he had saved it. Powerful, stern, and all-round fear worthy.

The tension rose like a hot air balloon, so thick it could be cut by a butter knife. The practically naked man bound to a chair and gagged with a dirty sock and the fully clothed man standing who had not-so-clean thoughts about said naked man. What a standoff. It was almost comical. The evil villain standing over the helpless protagonist. Only in this case, Chillingworth had not shown any sign of evilness, yet, and the "helpless" protagonist was not helpless. Despite the thick ropes, Dimmesdale had managed to wriggle his wrists loose, courtesy of the hastily-tied knots. Amateurs. What Chillingworth perceived as fruitless squirming was actually Dimmesdale's attempt at escape.

Chillingworth leaned close to Dimmesdale and whispered in his ear. "Hello. Welcome. Before I initiate any action, I would like to know how you managed to get yourself into such a predicament. Perhaps I could retain such information for… next time." In response, Dimmesdale grunted, unable to formulate proper words from behind his makeshift gag. Hesitantly, Chillingworth reached up with his left hand, yanking out the poorly-hygienic gag preventing Dimmesdale from speaking.

Still blindfolded, Dimmesdale began sputtering as if smacking his lips together and sticking his tongue out would rid his mouth of the foul stench that rested on the back of his tongue. In his process of emitting various sounds with his mouth, he began to contrast an answer in his head. How _did_ he manage to get himself into this situation? As he raked his mind like a lawn in the middle of autumn, the details slowly began to resurface like a German submarine after it had allegedly sunk the _Lusitania_. It was almost like someone had recorded the entire ordeal, edited the footage, and stuck it in Dimmesdale's mind. Bits and pieces flashed across his vision like a poorly edited 1930's movie.

Men in black suits yielding weapons. The door being forced open. A white chloroform rag being forced over his mouth. The vague feeling of being tied to a chair. The rustling as the men rummaged through his house. The way the men had forcefully ripped off his clothes, leaving him with nothing but a dirty sock to hide his dignity. The way the men stuffed another similarly dirty sock in his mouth to keep him from groaning. The men grinning as they switched the two socks. So _that_ was why his mouth tasted like he had licked the nether-most region of the male anatomy. The panic in the men's faces as they heard a knock at the door.

As the flashes of memories hit Dimmesdale like a pink elephant, he began to piece together what had happened. Slightly less confused than before, Dimmesdale continued to thrash around in the chair, slowly loosening the seemingly relentless bonds on his hand.

"So?" Chillingworth demanded once again in a severe timbre, waiting for a response. Dimmesdale took a deep breath and began.

"I don't remember everything, but I'll attempt to disclose everything I can remember, although I'm not sure who you are… what if you're working with those men?"

"What men?" Chillingworth pried. Dimmesdale tried to form a plan in his head. The bonds around his hands seemed to be loosening as he writhed and Chillingworth seemed more interested in his responses than what he was doing. It also seemed that Chillingworth was genuinely unaware of how Dimmesdale had gotten into such a position, so Dimmesdale came to the conclusion that disclosing what information he could piece together wasn't a terrible idea.

"Well… how do I begin? I suppose this whole ordeal for me began last night, at the local 'Garcia bar'…"

 **The previous night:**

"Hello sirs, what libations would you like to imbibe this evening?" the bartender asked. Dimmesdale waved his hand to dismiss him. He was here for business only. Any liquid influence would only delay his intentions. As minister, he took on more responsibilities than the average minister. He made sure the town ran without crashing, which involved approving large business interactions (to make sure trusts didn't form, which would inevitably result in an angered population). He also had to shut down any businesses that people thought were doing "shady" business. This evening, he was dealing with the latter. A company named "The Shady Epics" was the subject of his interrogation today. Three men accompanied Dimmesdale at the bar. One man was dressed from head to toe in a gray color that seemed to resemble the texture of steel. He seemed to be the leader. His two sidekicks were dressed more colorfully, one a man in fiery orange and red jacket and a pair of casual jeans and a woman in an equally orange and red skin-tight dress that hugged accentuated her every curve. Needless to say, Dimmesdale was the most interested in the latter. Even though Dimmesdale was, at first glance, a minister, he was also a male. A male well-versed in the art of female-adoration.

Dimmesdale eyed the two men and one woman as he decided how best to disclose the purpose for which he was at the bar.

"Well," he cleared his throat awkwardly, not wanting to create anger directed towards him, "you see, we, aka I, have recently been receiving various complaints from concerned individuals that your company is running under so-called 'shady' practices, and have thus been advised to disassemble your company unless we wish to be bombarded by public dissent." The three individuals looked at Dimmesdale, eyes never wavering, expressions never changing. It was almost as if he were playing piano for cows, the cows, of course being the three individuals. They did not seem to understand, as their faces stayed as stoic and unemotional as a rock.

The female, the first to react, slowly rose out of her chair and leaned towards Dimmesdale and hovered her lips a mere centimeter away from his left ear.

"Why don't we get a drink first?" she rasped in his ear, attempting to throw as much seduction into her voice as a beautiful woman in a gorgeous dress could muster. Long story short, Dimmesdale bent to her will like a child after receiving candy.

"Sure, I don't see how a few drinks could hurt," Dimmesdale replied, rather absent-mindedly. Very bad idea. _Very_ bad idea. One: Dimmesdale had promised himself before he came out that he would not drink, for fear of anything unexpected happening. Two: women who use their seductiveness to sway a man have usually been trained in said art, and are merely doing so to get what they want. Basically, Dimmesdale had just screwed himself over.

The female rose further out of her seat and leaned even further forward, jutting her chest out, giving Dimmesdale a lovely sight to behold.

"Bartender," she waved over the nearest bartender, "this kind sir here would like a 'sex on the beach' cocktail, just add it to my tab." The waiter nodded as she whisked away to prepare said drink.

"By the way, my name is Megan, nice to meet you, _Mr. Dimmesdale_ ," she continued, extending her hand out for a handshake. Dimmesdale, entirely focused on the hand and various body parts attached to said hand, completely missed anything that was going on in the background. The shuffling men went unnoticed. The small vile of RHB, aka the date-rape drug being emptied into the cocktail went completely unnoticed by the preoccupied Dimmesdale. Even in his sober state, a beautiful woman put in front of his threw him off guard. After all, he wasn't surrounded by such women very often. Normally, he was stuck in front of a large crowd, preaching about some religious stuff. Even more so after the whole 'Pearl-affair', he felt more and more like a hypocrite, as if religion was just a sham. During his speeches, he would often find his mind wandering toward more un-religious areas.

"Hello Megan, I'm – I'm," he scratched his head as if he had actually forgotten his own name, "I'm Arthur Dimmesdale, nice to meet you," he finished as he shook her outstretched hand.

"Ah! Would you take a look at that! Your drink has arrived! Enjoy your _sex on the beach_ ," she added, emphatically delivering the last phrase. Dimmesdale, perhaps under the impression that he would be less reserved and thus more charming, eagerly took the drink, and raised the glass to Megan as he drank.

At first, he thought that perhaps the drink was just really strong, but as he continued to consume the libation, his head began to feel woozy and he felt that if someone were to poke him, he would fall over like a dead tree. As his eyelids began to flutter, he eyed the three individuals sitting with him. The two men began to grin, and the woman smiled like a Cheshire cat, that is, an inherently evil and mischievous cat.

"I'm angrier than ever and I don't know why!" Dimmesdale managed to exclaim before he passed out. He felt a pair of strong arms grab his by the shoulder and begin to drag him away, after that, everything went black.

 **Present Day:**

As Dimmesdale finished telling his tale to Chillingworth, the air between the two men grew awkward once more. Chillingworth simply nodded before realizing that Dimmesdale, still blindfolded, would not be able to see such a response. He coughed slightly to indicate that he heard and understood the entire story, regardless of how outrageous it sounded.

Chillingworth, who had been listening intently the entire time, was unaware that Dimmesdale had managed to free the bonds around his hands completely. In an attempt to fathom the entire story, Chillingworth walked to the only window, that happened to be facing away from Dimmesdale. He stared out the window at the decrepit houses and rising sun as he held his hands behind his back, deep in thought.

Dimmesdale, who heard Chillingworth's footsteps reverberate throughout the room, knew, after serious mental calculations that Chillingworth had walked across the room and was currently looking outside. He carefully removed his blindfold and bent over slowly to untie his legs from the chair. Chillingworth, conveniently very deep in thought, continued to stare out the window, oblivious to Dimmesdale's semantics. After what seemed like eternity, Dimmesdale managed to free himself entirely of his bonds, and Chillingworth was _still_ looking out the window. If he had heard anything unusual, he sure didn't show it.

"So, what do you think we should do about-," Chillingworth began as he finally turned around, "what the-". Before Chillingworth could finish whatever curse was on the tip of his tongue, Dimmesdale lunged out of his chair, somehow managing to reach Chillingworth before he could finish his sentence. Dimmesdale groaned as he brought up his forearm against Chillingworth's throat, effectively pinning him against the wall. He followed with a swift knee to the groin, making Chillingworth double over and let out a painful grunt. Dimmesdale increased the pressure on Chillingworth's throat by pressing his forearm further and further forward. The man pinned up against the wall sputtered and began gasping for breath as his Adam's apple was flattened like play-doh.

Dimmesdale, finally realizing that the man in front of him was about to pass out, jumped back quickly, leaving Chillingworth gasping for breath. Before Dimmesdale could be courteous enough to apologize, Chillingworth raised his right fist into a hook punch that landed on Dimmesdale's left ear. It left his ear ringing, as if a fire alarm had been permanently embedded in his brain. The force of the punch also managed to remove the little sock that Dimmesdale had been sporting prior, leaving his in nothing but his bare skin. He didn't seem to notice as he stood up straight. Chillingworth hesitated, taking in the sight in front of him. Wow. He did look good as he flexed his muscles in preparation for a roundhouse kick. Wait. A roundhouse kick?

This realization hit Chillingworth after the kick itself, effectively knocking him onto the floor. Before he could get up from his sprawled position, Dimmesdale straddled him, pinning his wrists above his head, effectively rendering him immobile. Dimmesdale leaned down as his face fixated itself into a highly angered expression.

"I don't know who you are, or what you are doing here, but I am overly annoyed and underdressed to deal with any of your crap right now, so if you would kindly get out of-"

"AHEM. WOAH WOAH WOAH. WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS GOING ON HERE?!" Both men looked towards the door to see a woman holding a child in her arms standing there. She hurriedly moved to cover her child's eyes as her eyes continued to ask the inevitable question: "Were you doing _that_?"

"It's all his fault!" Chillingworth exclaimed, gesturing with his head toward Dimmesdale.

"Wow. Just wow. Way to throw me under the metaphorical anachronistic bus! I don't even know you!" Dimmesdale retorted.

"I believe I have other questions that are more important than your foreplay," the woman interrupted. Chillingworth and Dimmesdale both turned a shade of red that vaguely resembled a tomato.

"Well? Is anyone going to tell me what's going on here?"

xxxxxxxxxx Fin du Chapitre Trois xxxxxxxxxx

 **A/N:** References everywhere! See if you can spot them all! If you can, props to you (and props to those whom I got them from)! Also, as a great friend once said: "metaphors on point". I try. Anyways, I wrote this chapter at 3ish in the morning, so I rambled and my inhibitions weren't working properly, so this chapter may or may not sound like me at all. Additionally, I have not reread anything, so I hope this is at least somewhat coherent. Anyway, I have decided to delay the confrontation between Chillingworth and Dimmesdale more, yay. This is the longest thing I've ever written, I think this says a lot about me. Anyway, hopefully I'll see you all soon when I release the next chapter!


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